Page 86 of Red

When she entered the kitchen, Erik stood at the stove, stirring a pot with a wooden spoon. She blinked a few times, sure her mind was fucking with her. Glancing around the kitchen, she saw no sign of her grandmother.

She’d been tricked.

Again.

“Why, Grams, you’ve grown since I’ve last seen you,” she muttered, pressing herself against the wall. He gave her a rueful smile.

“What better way to protect you,” he played along.

Melinda eyed him silently. He wasn’t making a move toward her; he just kept stirring the sauce. Pasta boiled in another pot.

“Such big hands, too,” she commented when he lifted the pot from the stove and drained the noodles in the sink.

He finished draining them and put the pot on the stove, casting her a stern grin. “The best to spank you with.”

Melinda swallowed hard. Tears sprang to her eyes. He was there. Standing two steps away.

“W-where’s Grams?” she asked, unsure of the motive behind his presence but not sure she really cared. The immediate response from her body at seeing him threw her off guard. For weeks, she’d expected him to show up at her apartment, pounding down the door to drag her home. But he’d never shown up.

“She’ll join us later. Right now, you and I have talking to do.” He pointed to the table set for two. A glass was already filled with red wine, and she grabbed it. She needed the courage, liquid or otherwise.

“Sit,” he ordered when she remained standing beside the table. She sank onto the wooden chair, watching him as he finished plating her dinner.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” she said softly when he placed the plate in front of her.

“It’s pasta. I can manage that much at least.” He pointed to her fork. “Eat every bite. Don’t think I don’t know how little you’ve been taking care of yourself.” His eyes wandered over her form. With spring approaching, she’d forgone the winter coat and only worn a light long-sleeved blouse.

“If you wanted to see me, you didn’t need to trick me,” she said as he dished out his own dinner. He’d worn a black T-shirt that tightened across his back as he moved.

“Didn’t I?” he asked, taking his seat across from her. “Ian told me you kicked him out of your apartment building when he tried to talk to you last time.”

She had. Ian wasn’t who she wanted to see.

“Eat.” He pointed to her dinner again when she hadn’t picked up her utensils.

“You can’t make me—”

“I think you’ve forgotten who makes the rules around here.” He stuffed a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth, keeping his stern gaze locked on her. His steely blues locked her into the moment. He was there, glaring at her, feeding her pasta.

“I don’t think that really applies anymore,” she said softly, but scooped up some noodles.

“Really?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. “So, you signed the divorce papers?”

Of course, he would bring that up. She had found them in one of the boxes he’d sent over to her new apartment. A shoebox compared to the suite at Erik’s house, but it was hers. Paid for with the advance from the sale of her manuscript.

“No.” She shoved the pasta around her plate. “I didn’t.”

“Then it still applies.” He shoved more pasta into his mouth. A noodle smacked against his beard before he slurped it up into his mouth.

“You tricked Grams into letting you lure me here under false pretenses again.”

“I did.” He nodded, still chewing his last bite. “If I had shown up at that awful fucking place you live, I wouldn’t have been able to stand it. I would have dragged from there. You wouldn’t have liked that.” He raised his eyebrows. “Besides, I wanted to be sure you’d show. If I’d asked you, I didn’t think you would. I wouldn’t blame you, but I wanted to be certain.”

“Why did you want me here?”

“We need to talk.” He pushed his noodles around.

“Okay. Let’s talk.” Melinda put her fork down.

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